MirrorWorld (33 page)

“I wish I knew,” she says.

“When did the world start going haywire?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Before that, was Lyons here?”

She shakes her head slowly. “No. He returned a week after the first riots. Insisted on retrieving you.”

“To what end?”

“To … bollocks. I see where you’re going. He compared you to the
Enola Gay
. You were meant to be the delivery system. But now—”

“I’m obsolete. And they know who I am. They’d see me coming.”

“I’m sorry, Josef. I didn’t know.”

“I’m getting used to it,” I say.

“To me not knowing things?”

I shake my head. “My name.”

She smiles. “I’ve noticed.”

“I just wish I could remember something—anything from the past that might help.”

Her smile widens. “So now you want to help, do you?”

“Help, yes, but I won’t be jumping between worlds and fighting Dread.” I feel the sharp shame of cowardice, but know in my core I won’t be able to face another Dread and survive. “I’m not capable of that anymore.”

“Not in your current state,” she says, stopping by a door labeled
NEUROLOGY
. “But perhaps if you were properly motivated.” She pushes through the door, revealing a prepped operating table and three faces—Cobb, Blair the ice creambulance driver, and Stephanie, the woman who had been trying to determine whether my memory could be returned. Given the operating table and her presence, I think she found the answer, and it terrifies me.

42.

“Crazy,” Stephanie says with a knowing smile. “Good to see you again.”

I have a hard time looking her in the eyes as I now remember our first meeting with severe discomfort. That I could just strut around naked, in front of a woman I’d just met, now seems like a distant impossibility.

“You two know each other?” Allenby asks.

“We’ve hung out,” the neurologist says as she approaches. She elbows my arm like we’re pals, but the best I give her admittedly funny joke is a sheepish smile.

“When I fell through the floor, I landed in her lab.” I spit out the words, finding myself taking deep breaths despite a lack of physical effort.

“Ooh,” Allenby says. “Hung out. I get it now. You were in the buff.”

I grip Allenby’s arm. My throat feels like its swelling, my breathing growing labored. “What’s happening to me? Feels a little like I’m being strangled.”

She looks me over, still grinning, but also concerned. “Looks like a touch of embarrassment-induced anxiety. You’re not used to being teased.”

Cobb puts a gentle hand on my back. “Take a deep breath. Count out seven seconds.”

I do. My chest feels about to explode it’s so full.

“Hold it for seven seconds.” He counts this out with her fingers. “And now let it out for seven seconds.”

I exhale slowly, feeling a measure of calm return as the breath seeps from my lips. I repeat the process twice more until I feel better. When I look up again and see the operating table, my throat starts to close up again. Visions of Stephanie opening the back of my head mix with memories of the Dread mole probing my brain.

Allenby puts her hand on my arm. “You won’t be having surgery if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I won’t?”

“Just one injection,” Stephanie says.

“But in my brain.”

“From what I understand, there’s already a small hole in your skull.” She pauses for a moment, when I quickly find a seat and all but fall into it. “There are no pain receptors in the brain. You’re not going to feel a thing.”

“But something could go wrong.” I point to Cobb. “That’s why he’s here.”

“And because you trust him,” Allenby says, and gives the man a look.

“I wouldn’t support this if I thought your life was in danger,” Cobb says, and I believe him. Out of everyone at Neuro, he’s the only one whose integrity I don’t doubt to some degree. I don’t even fully trust dear ol’ Aunt Allenby.

I turn to Stephanie. “You’re not touching my head until I understand what you’re going to do.”

“I’m going to restore your memory,” she says.

“How?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Humor me.”

“The way your memories were erased … the procedure was … archaic. I can’t actually believe you requested it.” Stephanie glances at Allenby, who nods for her to continue. “Memories are stored in the cerebral cortex, which is the outer layers of the brain. Sometimes, when the cortex is damaged, like in a car accident, neurons will die or degenerate. Glial cells, which are most easily explained as the nervous system’s overprotective glue, swarm to the injury sites, protecting the brain against bacteria or toxins. The side effect of these reactive glial cells rushing to protect the mind is that the scar tissue they form effectively blocks the growth of new, healthy neurons, trapping memories in the cerebral cortex. So memories aren’t lost so much as blocked. By studying and comparing numerous traumatic-injury amnesia cases, my predecessor was able to identify the specific neural pathways used to recall memories as well as the regions of the cortex itself that store long-term memories.”

She looks uncomfortable with what comes next.

“I can handle it,” I tell her, only half believing it. But I have seen and survived worse, including what she’s now explaining. If I keep reminding myself, maybe I won’t curl up on the floor.

“They basically raked the surface of your brain in the regions controlling memory. And they caused trauma to the areas responsible for transmitting those memories. They couldn’t really destroy the memories without killing you, so they forced your cerebrum to do the job itself, creating vast amounts of memory-blocking glial scar tissue.”

The news makes me uncomfortable, but since it happened to a version of me I can’t remember, it doesn’t feel any different than if I’d read about it in a magazine. “And you’re going to what, remove the scar tissue?”

“In a way,” she says. “We’re going to turn those glial cells into functioning neurons, which will reopen neural pathways to the portions of your cerebral cortex that have been segregated.”

“How?”

Stephanie sighs. “Seriously?”

“It’s my brain.”

“It’s not going to sound fun.”

I stare at her until she complies.

“Fine. We’re going to inject the glial cells with a retrovirus.”

She’s right. That doesn’t sound fun at all. “You’re going to give my brain a virus?”

“Retroviruses can—”

“I know what they can do,” I tell her. “I’m part Dread, thanks to a different DNA-altering retrovirus.”

Stephanie just shakes her head. “Well, this retrovirus contains the genetic code for the NeuroD1 protein, which, in the hippocampus, turns reactive glial cells into nerve cells. The virus can’t replicate for long. It doesn’t destroy healthy cells. And it can only infect glial cells. The rest of your functioning neurons will remain intact.”

“That … doesn’t sound too bad, but I’m not sure I want my memories back. I forgot them for a reason, right?” I turn to Allenby. “You said that life had become so painful I opted to erase my memory rather than live with it. What good will come from me regaining memories so painful that even my fearless self couldn’t handle them?”

Allenby is suddenly in my face. “Because pain hones us.” She shoves my chest. “It gives us purpose.” A solid slap across my face staggers me back. “It makes us stronger.” She slaps me again. I try to dodge, but she’s fast and I’m on the defense. “Pain teaches us lessons.” She swings hard once more, but this time I catch her wrist in my hand. She glares at me. “And sometimes, if we’re lucky, or brave, pain can push us past our fear.”

She yanks her hand out of my grasp. “You can’t run away from your past, and I don’t think you ever intended to.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Why would a man without fear run away? Sure, it hurt. We lost your parents, your son, who happens to be my nephew, and we lost
my
husband. I’ve been living with that pain all these years. It’s what drives me to keep fighting. But you … you retreated from it? Bullshit. That’s not you. It never was. You wouldn’t have gone through with it without a good reason. Or a bad one. It wasn’t the loss of your family you were meant to forget, it was something else.”

“What?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” she says, “but I hope you remember.”

Looking at Allenby, this fifty-five-year-old woman whose small stature belies a powerful resolve, I’m inspired. She has suffered deep loss, is fully aware of the kind of enemy we’re facing, and is willing to stare defiantly in the face of fear. But can I find that strength in myself, even with my memory returned? I’m not sure. Fear is new to me, and it will be new to my old self, too. I have no natural defenses against it or coping mechanisms to help me recover from its effects.

And what if I’m an asshole? What if my memories return and the thing I wanted to forget was something horrible I did? I already know I was a CIA assassin, but what if I was a murderer? What if I
enjoyed
killing? Who knows what my past self did. I have trouble believing it was anything but horrible.

I clench my eyes shut against the tide of what-ifs.

Allenby is right. It doesn’t matter who I used to be. Or what I’m afraid is going to happen. With countless lives and an outright war with the Dread looming, any help I can offer should be given without hesitation, even if it hurts. Even if it frightens me.

I turn to Stephanie. “How fast will it work?”

“It will be a slow spread as the retrovirus works its way through the damaged areas. The change will be one cell at a time.” She holds her hands up. “And before anyone complains, this is a good thing. Picture a lifetime of memories like a lake. Right now, all that mental water is dammed and frozen. We’re going to be thawing the ice, but we’re also removing the dams bit by bit. If it happened all at once, the flood of information would overwhelm your mind. The effects could be catastrophic.”

“Total time,” I say. “How long? Months?”

“Oh, no.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Days.”

“What’s it going to feel like?”

“If I could ask the lab rats, I’d be able to … tell…” She looks at my wide-eyed expression. “Probably should have left that detail out, huh?”

“Probably,” I say, but try to ignore that we’re talking about a procedure that’s only been done on lesser mammals. “When it’s done, if it works, will I still be me?”

“You mean, will you still be Crazy with a capital
C
?” Allenby asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “You’ll still remember the past year, so those experiences will shape who you are, but you’ll also be Josef, too.” She takes my hand. “Look, I know I’ve painted an unappealing image of your old self, but you really weren’t … I’ve been angry at that man for a long time. For running away. You were a good man, and a great father, despite your previous occupation. If I didn’t think bringing the old you back would help, I wouldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

She pats my hand and steps back. “If you really did volunteer to forget, with the intention of never restoring your memory, I’m not sure you’ll be happy to remember.”

“So you’re counting on Crazy to balance out Josef?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay,” I say, and climb on the table. “Let’s just do this so you don’t have to draw that gun behind your back and force me to.”

All eyes turn to Allenby. She offers a fake apologetic smile, draws the weapon from behind her back, and moves to place it on a countertop. She stops halfway when the door behind her opens.

Winters steps in. “Just what the hell do you all think you’re doing?”

Allenby swivels around, leveling the gun at Winters.

The one-woman CIA oversight committee / psychotherapist doesn’t even blink at the weapon. She glances around the room, at who’s there, at the equipment, then at Allenby. “Let me help. He’s going to need someone … close … to help him transition when he wakes up.”

“Wait, what?” I ask. “What do you mean, wake up?”

Allenby nods to Cobb. “Do it.”

I feel a pinch on my neck, hear a whispered apology from Cobb, and then drift into a dream.

43.

Heads shift about randomly, a mix of dark hair and darker-colored abayas. There’s no pattern to the clogged marketplace, just movement as thousands of people buy, sell, and steal for their families. They don’t call the Chor Bazaar the “thieves market” for nothing. There are as many stolen goods being sold as there are pickpockets working the crowd.

My view is from far above the action, a half mile away and sixteen stories up, on the roof of a hotel that provides a line of sight straight down Mutton Street, right in the middle of Muslim-populated Mumbai, India.

I scan the street, looking for my target, who should be easy to spot, despite the fact that all I can see are heads. And motorcycles. Cars won’t fit up the narrow street with all the people, so the vehicle of choice in this part of the city is of the two-wheeled variety. Except for the black BMW parked across the street from the used-instruments shop. It sticks out as obviously as my target will.

“There you are,” I whisper, as a blond woman steps out of the music shop. She has an edge to her. A seriousness that, despite her age and aquiline beauty, says she’s not someone with whom to trifle. Too bad for her; trifling is kind of my job.

I put her head in my crosshairs as she speaks to someone still in the shop.

The dossier I received said she runs a human-trafficking ring, smuggling women out of India and into the Middle East. But she recently expanded her business and now smuggles arms to a variety of terror organizations. Bad career move.

It’s a hard shot. Her head, while squarely focused at the center of my crosshairs, is occasionally blocked by a passerby. I could pull the trigger only to have someone step in front of the bullet.

But this doesn’t frighten me. If the bullet does strike someone else first, the high-caliber round will pass straight through the unfortunate’s head and still find its target. Ignoring everything but my target, I slip my finger behind the trigger, exhale, and squeeze.